Chapter 2: A Torn Dream and Eyes of Ice
Chapter Two
‘If I go downstairs and face him, I’ll just get scolded again.’
Brittany had no desire to descend to the lower floor. But if she left things as they were and her father discovered it, he would tear her notebook apart.
She couldn’t allow that—not after the effort it took to obtain it.
Turning her head toward the window, she lifted the curtain to check if the visitor’s carriage was still outside.
Thankfully, it appeared the conversation would drag on a while longer. Brittany decided to make her move. As she tiptoed quietly, hoping to avoid her father’s notice, the hem of her white linen dress fluttered softly around her ankles.
Upon reaching the parlor and glancing around, she found her notebook lying on the floor, just as she’d feared. She rushed to pick it up and clutched it to her chest. Relief washed over her—it was safe. But suddenly, the reception room door opened. Brittany quickly ducked behind the wall and slipped the notebook into the pocket of her apron.
“Well then, I’ll be taking my leave now.”
“Yes, yes, take care on your way.”
Count Raven remained in a deep bow until the creditor, Klein, stepped outside.
Once the door shut and the unwelcome guest was gone, the Count straightened and erupted in rage:
“Damn it! How many times over do they want me to repay the interest?!”
Whether it was the rising debt, the humiliation of bowing to a younger man, or the bitter act of showing respect to someone beneath him—or perhaps all of it combined—his fury refused to subside. He slammed his fist into the wall, only to wince and clutch his hand in pain.
Brittany stood frozen, waiting for the storm to pass. Any movement could trigger the wrath of Count Raven, who was already on edge. Silence was her safest option.
But as expected, she wasn’t so lucky.
“So, you enjoy hiding like a rat and watching me, do you?”
“…!”
The Count suddenly closed in on her. She stepped back instinctively, but there was nowhere to run.
“You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
Before she could utter a word in defense, his anger lashed out at her.
“No! I wasn’t—”
“Liar! Everyone looks down on me, but I won’t stand for it! Those arrogant brats pretending they’re something, lifting their chins at me! Filthy merchants…”
“Ah!”
“I’m sorry—please forgive me!”
But he wasn’t listening. He shoved her to the floor, rage consuming him. She tasted blood inside her mouth—an internal wound, perhaps.
“….”
“Don’t you dare think this is unjust. It’s my right as your father to discipline you—to protect you. I’m the one suffering here, forced to endure a daughter like you…”
Even after several blows, his fury did not abate. He ripped the notebook from her apron pocket.
“You think having a ‘refined’ hobby makes you special? That arrogant gaze of yours disgusts me! Didn’t I tell you to stop drawing? You think your sketches are worth something?!”
“I’m sorry! Please give it back!”
“You dare raise your voice at me? Where are your manners?!”
Count Raven pressed his foot against her thin back and flipped through the notebook with mocking disdain.
“Sometimes I get the feeling you dream of becoming an artist. Is that it?”
He bent down and waved one of her drawings from earlier that day in front of her face, smirking cruelly.
“No, I’m sorry! Please return it!”
Though her scalp burned from the grip on her hair, Brittany didn’t care. Her fear of losing the notebook was far greater. She would’ve taken ten more blows if it meant getting it back.
“A girl like you, a painter? Don’t be ridiculous. There are plenty who draw like you. No one needs your sketches—they’re a waste of paper, time, and money.”
And then, as if to trample her dreams further, he threw her hair aside, opened the notebook, and ripped apart the pages she had spent the morning lovingly drawing.
“…!”
He didn’t stop at just one page. With savage determination, he tore the entire notebook in half. Brittany’s eyes trembled as she watched her work split apart—her heart with it. Count Raven let out a satisfied, twisted laugh, having crushed his daughter’s spirit.
‘If only my father didn’t exist in this world…’
The thought crossed her mind like a bitter prayer. But then guilt surged, and her hatred of him turned inward—toward her helpless, fragile self. It became loathing.
She bit her lower lip until it bled. Her hands and feet were cold. Her whole body shook, her heart felt shattered.
“A woman belongs in the home—managing its affairs. Not loitering about, wasting money like some pitiful girl!”
With every kick, the sense of loss and helplessness overwhelmed her. Brittany lay motionless, as she always did—submitting to the blows.
‘There’s no point in drawing. It will be discovered and torn apart. I’ll be reminded that I can never become a painter.’
All that remained was passive resignation. But without drawing… how was she supposed to endure this life? She needed it—drawing was her only breath of air.
She gave in, as always. A few more hits, and her father’s rage would subside.
‘Tomorrow, when I wake, the pain will be gone.’
It was a familiar cycle. She would beg, submit, and survive… perhaps until death.
But then, an unfamiliar man’s voice shattered the moment:
“Have I arrived at an inconvenient time?”
The kicking stopped. Brittany lifted her gaze toward the voice. A stranger’s silhouette emerged through her blurred vision. She’d never seen him before… yet his voice—his voice was familiar.
It was calm and smooth, like a breeze in a summer forest. The same voice she had heard earlier, speaking with her father in the reception room.
“Oh, no, not at all. I only have one daughter, and I was disciplining her. But what brings you back?”
“I forgot something.”
The man leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed. He looked at her—not with sympathy, but with piercing coolness, as though he could see right through her.
She looked at him for a moment, then cast her trembling eyes down. She had expected warmth from his voice, but his eyes were cold—frigid. A chill ran down her spine.
He exuded an aura suited to the night—elegant and dangerously enigmatic. From his sleek black hair to the perfectly tailored suit, everything about him radiated a quiet, magnetic power.
“You should’ve knocked…”
Count Raven muttered, but the man replied smoothly,
“The door was open. Was I not allowed?”
“Oh, no, no of course not. Forgive me for such an unbecoming scene. I’ll fetch what you left.”
The Count hurried into the reception room, muttering curses under his breath.
Still lying on the ground, Brittany could feel the man’s gaze fixed upon her. Slowly, she pushed herself up, arms shaking. She didn’t know when he had entered or how much he had seen, but she was certain he had witnessed the beating. Her head spun. Tears threatened to fall.
She glanced up, searching his face—but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was leafing through her notebook, examining a drawing she had done by the lake.
With each page he turned, shame twisted deeper in her chest than any humiliation from the beating.
‘He must be thinking just like Father—that my sketches are a joke, a waste of time…’
Her chin quivered. She lowered her head, her face burning with shame.
